


This Is Not A Jane Austen Novel

by raiining



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 16 year Clint Barton is a bad person - no really, Hate-to-love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Build, insults related to appearance, minor fantasy of dub-con, pining!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton meets Phil Coulson when he is young and stupid.  Years later they meet again, and Clint realizes he may already have fucked up the best thing that ever happened to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Not A Jane Austen Novel

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [More Than a Patsy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/825539) by [orderlychaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orderlychaos/pseuds/orderlychaos). 



> Immense thanks to Ralkana, who helped me work out the bugs and edited this fic for me. All remaining mistakes are mine. THANK YOU GORGEOUS!!!
> 
> Re-re-edited because I was reading through and wincing at some of the mistakes. No new content!

The problem is, Clint is a punkass kid.

He's sixteen and so full of shit it's a wonder he doesn't sneeze brown. Barney left three years ago, but it's fine, everything's fine, because Clint is the star of the motherfucking show. He has his own trailer now and even Trickshot's admitted he has nothing left to teach him. Clint sells out tickets in every state. His poster precedes the circus.

_The Amazing Hawkeye! Come and watch the youngest Master Marksman in the World as he shoots Flaming Arrows from the back of a Runaway Horse!_

They'll stop in a town on a Thursday, have the tent up and shows running by the weekend, and pack up and be gone by Monday night. Three nights on the road and do it all again, over and over, rinse and repeat. It's a nomadic life, but it means Clint gets two nights free on the town – Thursday when they arrive and Sunday before they leave. He's an expert at looking older than he is. He always hits the bar, makes out with a few different people, and then finds someone to take him home. He's gone before four the next morning and either on the road or performing by the afternoon. 

He is hot shit. If he focuses hard enough on having fun, all the bad stuff goes away. The nightmares, Barney, the secrets Trickshot is obviously keeping... if he can sleep with enough beautiful people, it means he'll be okay.

Clint has a rating system for every state. He can't expect a ten in Iowa to be a ten in California, but the basic principle is the same. Clint likes to find a seven or an eight to make out with for a bit and then he'll score a nine or ten to take him home. It's a solid system and it gets him laid. So when a homey kid who can't be older than twenty-one (Clint's fake ID for this state says twenty-two, and he's got swagger to pull it off. As an added bonus, his costume includes a mask) introduces himself and offers to buy him a beer, Clint laughs in his face.

"Sorry, kid. You're barely a five, maybe a six. No, thank you."

The kid actually looks kind of hurt by that, but not angry or anything. Clint tips his glass in his direction and walks away, and ends up making out with a tall, smoking hot black guy in the corner of the bar. The guy is with someone who comes out of the bathroom spitting bullets, so Clint laughs and finds someone else to take him home. He's out and on the road early the next morning, whistling under his breath.

He thinks about the kid every once in a while. He'd been bold, if plain, and he didn't put up a fuss or anything when Clint turned him down. He wonders sometimes if he should have said yes to the beer and made the kid's night. He might have taken him to the bathroom and let him suck Clint's cock. He's heard the ugly ones made the best cocksuckers. Clint had gone down on the woman who took him home that night, but she hadn't reciprocated. He bet the kid would've.

It wasn't like he worries over it often, though. Just now and again, when he's out at a bar and the pickings are slim. They'll be back at the little town same time next year – maybe he'll look for a familiar face.

Clint never makes it back. He stumbles onto what Trickshot and the Swordsman are up to, confronts them about it like the idiot he's always been, and nearly gets himself killed. He would have died in that alley had not a woman been walking her dog before sunrise and called 911. 

He's in the hospital for six weeks, and then another two when he has to fake symptoms because he has nowhere else to go. When they finally wise up and called Social Services, Clint escapes, leaving behind his monumentous hospital bill and vanishing.

He has no clue how to survive, and lives on the streets for longer than he likes to admit. It brings back memories of the time before the circus, when Barney had broken them out of foster care. They'd huddled under bridges and stolen blankets from stores. Clint remembers what Barney had taught him about pick-pocketing and he makes enough to survive. The day he can afford a second-hand bow from a used hunting shop, he starts taking contracts for money. When people laugh at his equipment, he let his work speak for him and never tells them he didn't know how to load a gun. 

Eventually, he makes a name for himself, even though he hates what he does and what he's become. When a tall, black man in a long leather coat comes calling, Clint has to use every trick he knows not to burst into tears in the man's face.

He holds it together though the interview and takes the man's card, waiting until he's alone in his hotel room before he loses his composure and his cocky smile. He takes a shower to clean his face and forces himself to wait the full twenty-four hours before calling the number on the card and accepting a position within S.H.I.E.L.D.

His first day on the job, Clint tells himself he's hot shit. The mantle doesn't fit quite so well any more, but he knows he needed to act confident if he wants people to take him seriously. He doesn't want to be thrown out, though, so he has to be cocky but not actually disobedient. It takes a few days to settle into a groove, but once Clint finds it, it's like coming home to an old friend.

He can do this. He can fucking well _do_ this. He might be a lot of things – an idiot, a carnie, and a murderer – but he is still the best fucking marksman in the fucking _world_.

Once it happens, Clint can't believe it took so long, but a week after he joins S.H.I.E.L.D. he runs into the kid. He's late for a class on basic protocol and slips into the conference room without looking at the instructor. It's a solid five minutes before he can glance up from his notebook – Clint's never gone to school, and this stuff was fucking _hard_ – but when he does, he stares. 

It's ... it's _him_. It's the kid from the fucking bar.

_He looks exactly the same_ , Clint thinks. It must be obvious on his face, because the kid happens to look over then and catch his eye. He blushes. Clint feels his heart rate speed up and looks away. He tries to focus on his notebook, but his concentration's shot. Instead of listening, he steels peeks during the rest of class.

The kid doesn't look _exactly_ the same, Clint amends to himself, and he isn't really a kid. He never's been – he's at least six years older than Clint, maybe seven. But he's been 'the kid' so long in Clint's head that it's hard not to think of him that way, like he's still twenty-one and offering to buy Clint a beer. 

He has the same mousy brown hair and plain-looking face. His shoulders are broader now, his waist trim, and he's wearing a suit that fits him very well. Overall, he definitely looks more mature. There's muscle under his skin that Clint can see at his wrist, and he moves like someone who can handle himself. 

Clint looks over his notes after the lesson and realizes he'd been too distracted to take in anything. He nearly fails the exam they have that Friday and sweats for a night, convinced he's going to get kicked out. Luckily for Clint's continued employment, the kid – his name is Coulson, Clint learns – never teaches them again. Apparently, he's some kind of protocol genius and was only there for the one lesson. 

Clint wonders if he still likes guys. He wonders if he could ask him.

They pass each other a few times in the hallway and Clint always nods and smiles, friendly-like. The kid either avoids his eye or nods back, very professional. It makes Clint smile. He kinda wants to fuck with him.

He wonders how he could do it, and decides against anything obvious. He's already gaining a reputation for being a bit of a flirt, mostly because Clint doesn't know how to talk to people _without_ flirting. Besides, the majority of people he works with are both competent and easy on the eyes. The kid is probably the plainest one there, or in the bottom three. It would probably be good for him if Clint flirted a little. Give him status, or something.

Clint builds it up in his head, how he's going do it, but the first time he gets the chance – the kid is sitting by himself in the cafeteria – it doesn't go anything like he's planned.

"Hey, gorgeous," Clint says, swaggering up to the table. "Can I join you?"

The kid barely looks up at him. "No."

Clint stops in his tracks, frowning slightly. People don't often say 'no' to him. They laugh or roll their eyes or flirt back. 'No' is definitely not in the plan.

"Come on," Clint needles, trying again. "I hear the spaghetti's good today. You can show me how to use my fork and spoon properly." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

The kid very carefully puts down his utensils. He does it with the kind of precision you use when you actually want to throw something, but for some reason can't. Then he stands and walks away from the table, leaving his lunch behind him, pausing only long enough to pick up his tablet computer.

Clint watches him go in shock.

That... isn't supposed to happen.

He's forced to reconsider, over the days and weeks that follow, that an encounter he remembers with passing fondness, the kid is probably pretty angry over. Clint remembers his words over and over again lying alone in bed. He realizes that he's been an idiot. He'd basically called the kid ugly to his face – of _course_ he wanted nothing to do with Clint. He probably hates him, has probably hated him for _years_. He must have been as embarressed as fuck to see Clint again, and Clint flirting with him would have only made things _worse_. He probably thought Clint was just messing with him.

And the worst thing is – Clint _was_ just messing with him. If the kid had flirted back, Clint would have done his thing and tried to charm him, and then left it at that. He hadn't been planning on bedding the guy, or even making out with him. Sure, he's thought about it occasionally, but he knows he won't do it if push comes to shove. He'd probably laugh in his face again, or say something equally mean.

Clint is a jackass.

He punches his pillow and tells himself it doesn't matter. So the kid goes out of his way to actively avoid him now. Clint never sees him in the corridors or passes him in the hall. If they are forced to share an elevator, the guy stands in the very back corner and does his best to blend in with the wall. He's fucking _good_ at it, too. He can blend into almost anything, which is ridiculous because he isn't actually a small guy. He's taller than Clint by at least a half-inch with shoulders just as broad, even if Clint's arms are stronger because of the bow. He shouldn't be able to step back and blend in with the wall, but he absolutely can.

Clint starts paying more attention to the guy than is healthy. He has a reputation around S.H.I.E.L.D. and agents liked to talk about him over coffee. Apparently, his ability to blend in isn't limited to being around Clint – it's his super-power on ops, too. 

"So the guy ducks out of the alley where we're chasing him," Agent Woo says to a gaggle of juniors fetching coffee, "and just disappears. Like – we turn the corner and he's fucking _gone_. I'm thinking – shit, Esponita's gonna strangle me with my own field-jacket, and then Coulson comes over the comm. He says, 'I've got eyes on the suspect'." The juniors around him smile. 

"It turns out Coulson already reconned the area and noticed this bar set into a hole in the wall, and figured the guy would try to hide there if things went south during the take. He was already in place, waiting for him, and spotted the asshole the moment he walked in. So while we're arguing with the bouncer, trying not to make a scene, Coulson gets close enough to offer to buy this guy a drink. He's wearing a suit and tie and sunglasses, but the guy apparently doesn't fucking notice that he looks _exactly_ the same as the idiots that were chasing him, because he grins and says yes. Coulson actually _buys the guy a drink_ and slips something into his beer. We finally show up three minutes later and Coulson's sitting there – cool as a cucumber – drinking a rum and coke, and the guy's passed out beside him! Easiest take ever!"

Clint hides his grimace by taking a sip of his lukewarm coffee. He feels sorry for the suspect. Clint's been fooled by that plain face, too.

He finally graduates from basic training – he knows how to fire a gun now, even if he doesn't like it – and gets sent on ops. It doesn't take him long to realize that he's never put on the same team as Coulson. He keeps listening to stories, but they're all second-hand. They get grander too, more elaborate. Apparently, Coulson's a badass in the field, with moves like no one's ever seen, and he can take down a HYDRA base with a toothpick. 

Clint tries not to feel self-conscious about the fact that Coulson hates his guts, but it becomes a little obvious when Coulson's promoted to senior agent and Clint's never requested on his team. Clint's made a name for himself as one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best snipers by this point. Agent May is still better with a gun, but when they let him use his bow, Clint's fucking _unstoppable_.

Coulson never asks for him, though, even when Clint knows his presence on the team would make things go a lot smoother. He finally gets his chance to see Coulson in action when Agent Esponita asks for him personally, and Coulson's forced to let him follow them to Milan. He tries not to be a cocky asshole on the comms, but it's kind of hard not to. Clint's first defense has always been a good offense, and he feels off-balance.

"You gonna ask me to shoot this guy anytime in the next seven hours, or are we going to let him live today?"

It's hour six of a supposedly two-hour stake out. Coulson had said five hours ago that he was holding off because new information was being made available from the field. Clint hasn't heard a peep from him since. He's long past bored and getting twitchy. This tree isn't as comfortable as it was four hours ago. 

Coulson doesn't respond. Clint wonders if he's even listening any more, if he turned off his comm at some point and Clint just never noticed. 

In revenge, he clears his throat. "Hey Coulson, what did one ocean say to the other ocean?" He doesn't bother waiting for a reply. "Nothing, he just waved. What did one cannibal say to the other while they were eating a clown? Does this taste funny to you? What do you call a cow with one leg? Lean beef. What do you call a cow with no legs? Ground beef. What do you get from a pampered cow? Spoiled mil– "

"I swear to god, Barton, if you don't shut the fuck up and get off the fucking channel, I am going to tell Director Fury it was you who stole his second eyepatch."

Esponita sounds about three seconds from losing it. Clint shuts up.

He never manages to get a rise out of Coulson, not for the entire op. It'd be better if he had eyes on the man and could at least see him scowl, but the agent stays stubbornly in the van. Clint has to admit the rumours are true – Coulson is damn good at his job. He eventually calls off the kill on Clint's target and tells him to shoot the second-in-command instead. The man drops with an arrow in his throat. Clint hears later that Coulson managed to plant a bug on the original target and uncover an entirely unknown side of the operation. 

Esponita's pissed at him, though. Clint knows she's never going to request him on an op with Coulson ever again. He figures it'll be his last time working with the man, and needles him all the way back to base.

Clint _is_ S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best sniper, though, and he's been working on his skills with a gun. Despite his unfortunate tendency to babble jackass nonsense when Coulson's on the team, they do occasionally get sent to the same location together by the higher-up's. Even Coulson can't refuse when Fury gives him a direct order. Clint tries to watch his mouth, but mostly it stumbles on without him, snarking back to Coulson and cracking tasteless jokes, and generally proving that Clint's the asshole everybody knows he is.

He'd take it all back if he could, though, because at this moment Clint has a woman in his sights that he doesn't want to shoot. He knows Coulson won't listen to him if he says anything – Clint's spent long enough as a thorn in his side. Coulson still hasn't said anything about it, but Clint knows he's going to enjoy watching Clint get hunted down by S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Agent Barton," Coulson says into his comm, and Clint wonders how he knows Clint's put down his rifle from way down there. "What do you think you're doing?"

There's no censure in his voice, no hidden glee. Clint's surprised enough that he speaks without thinking, which is basically his default setting when it comes to this man.

"I'm not taking the shot."

"Why?" 

Again, there's nothing in his voice but honest curiosity. Clint grinds his teeth together, ready to shimmy off the rooftop and commit himself. He stops and forces himelf to answer, though. He owes Coulson that much.

"She walked right into my scope. She's looking to die, and I can't – fuck, sir, I know you have no reason to trust me on this, but she _wants_ to die, which means I can't kill her."

"You want to bring her in."

It's not a question – Coulson already somehow knows what Clint is planning. He waits on the edge of the rooftop, wondering what Coulson's thinking. Maybe he should take his comm out so S.H.I.E.L.D. can't follow him when he runs. "Yes, sir."

Coulson hums over the comm. It's a thinking hum, one of the few tells Coulson has. "You have ten minutes," Coulson says finally, and Clint almost falls off the roof in surprise. "I'll have Agent May replace you as sniper and will keep eyes on you myself. Good luck, Agent Barton."

"Yes, sir," Clint says, recovering. "Thank you, sir."

It takes longer than ten minutes. Clint leaves his comm on so Coulson can at least follow his side of the conversation, and Coulson gives him the extra time. The woman doesn't want to come in, but Clint's persistent. He recognizes something inside of her, something that hurts. He gets her to agree to a meet with Coulson, and then fidgets in the background while they talk. Finally, she agrees to come with S.H.I.E.L.D., and Clint beams all the way back to base.

He can't keep being an asshole to Coulson after that, though, no matter how much easier it would be. Coulson's proven he's not the enemy, and Clint maybe shouldn't be so afraid of him. He doesn't even get censured after the op, even though Clint _knows_ Coulson understood what he was prepared to do. 

There's no black mark in his file, though. They're sent on a few more operations together while Natasha Romanov – she really _is_ the Black Widow, Clint thought that was a myth – completes basic training. Things between them are easier. A _lot_ easier.

So much easier, in fact, that Clint starts going over their past interactions with a fine-toothed comb. He realizes that Coulson's never had a problem with him – sure, he's never requested Clint on ops, but no matter how much shit Clint gives him over the comm, Coulson never responded in kind. Clint goes over Coulson's mission logs, something he's never dared to do before, and realizes that Coulson never says anything negative about him at all. Instead he commends his work in the field with his usual dry precision, and even says things like "Agent Barton's conduct during this operation was exemplary" which Clint _knows_ is a fucking lie.

It may be – it _must_ be – that they've never had a feud going at all. Clint's been building this all up inside his head. Coulson doesn't care about him – Coulson's probably _never_ cared about him. Every time he blushed or avoided Clint's presence was probably embarrassment for the way Clint was making a fool out of himself. 

Clint's been thinking they had some kind of epic-level hate-on for each other, but Coulson probably never spared a second thinking about him at all. It's all been a figment of his imagination.

Clint punches his work-out bag and tells himself he isn't disappointed. Just because he spends all of his time and energy thinking about Coulson, and Coulson probably never does the same – well, that's fine. That's fucking fine. 

Nat's finally cleared from basic and does something to prove to the brass that she's not about to turn around and kill them all in their sleep. Clint does his best to forget about Coulson and focuses on bringing her up to speed. They hang out on base and Clint shows her all the best coffee spots, the junior agents to avoid, and how to move silently through the ventilation system if she so desires. They train together, and Clint gets his ass handed to him on a regular basis. It's awesome. It's almost enough to make him forget what an idiot he's been.

They get sent on a few missions together. It's mostly milk runs until suddenly it isn't, anymore. They're fantastic together, a fully-functional team, and Clint _loves it_. He's never had someone who _gets_ him before, someone who understands what he's thinking without having to say a word. He's never had anybody he could drop his mask in front of. Natasha's the first person at S.H.I.E.L.D. to learn he's not half as cocky as he tries to make people believe.

She's better than him, of course. A better spy, and a better person. She actually manages to move off base into an apartment when she's cleared for it, while Clint's still sleeping on a rock-hard, supposedly temporary bunk at S.H.I.E.L.D. It's okay, though. Clint's used to hanging out with people who are out of his league.

They sleep together a few times, but there's nothing romantic between them. After a conversation in which hardly any words are spoken, they stop. There are better, more fulfilling ways of offering comfort, even if Clint's never understood them before. He gets really good at foot massages. Nat learns an appreciation for classic sci fi.

Fury calls them into his office one day. "You two are the best," he says with his usual bluntness. "You know it, and I know it. I'm done separating you because the World Security Council feels uncomfortable. From this point on you'll be permanently assigned to Strike Team Delta, an elite unit composed of the two of you and a rotating sequence of senior agents as handlers. You'll be assigned the missions no one else can complete. I expect you to impress me, agents. That is all."

Clint and Natasha nod. They're sent out the next day with Agent Woo to take down a HYDRA base in Japan. It's harder than their usual missions and Clint almost gets shot twice. It's awesome.

After that, there's no going back. They're sent together all over the world. They get a number of handlers, but Coulson's by far their favourite. His ops still run like well-oiled machines, even now when – more often than less – something completely unexpected occurs. Coulson's got back-up plans for his back-up plans and when he's on the line, Clint knows he's coming home. He starts to get anxious when they're sent on a mission with a different handler, and he knows Natasha feels the same.

Clint's smartened up a lot over the past couple of months. He doesn't go out of his way to piss Coulson off on the comms any more. He acts like a professional, because he has learned how to be. He might not have Coulson's undivided attention, but the man obviously understands his importance to S.H.I.E.L.D. He's always polite to Clint and never makes him feel uncomfortable for the shitty way Clint's treated him in the past. It's more than Clint deserves.

Nat knows there's something between them, of course, because Coulson might feel nothing but Clint's not so goddamn fortunate. When he looks at Coulson he feels a roiling combination of guilt, regret, and something deeper he can't name. She digs half the story out of him and then curls up with him on her sofa. They spend the rest of the night watching bad sci fi. 

Clint feels like she understands something he doesn't, which isn't unusual. He figures it out in Odessa, though. Clint must be the last person within S.H.I.E.L.D. to get this, but apparently Coulson's a Captain America fanboy. Natasha knows because Natasha knows everything. She's scoping a target along the fish market when she stops for five minutes at a stand. She goes off comm for the exchange, which should be suspicious as hell, but it's _Natasha_. If she wanted to kill them, they'd already be dead. 

Coulson must figure the same because he doesn't say much when she signs back on, just asks "Everything okay, Agent?"

"Fine, sir," she says, and the op proceeds as normal.

Clint actually forgets about it until the mission's over and they're back in their hotel room. Coulson has gotten him and Nat one room, which is nice of him because neither of them sleep well on a mission. He knocks and, when neither of them says anything, walks in to start their sitrep.

He stops in the doorway mid-step. Clint glances at him, then checks to make sure nothing's out of place. He's wearing pants and Nat hasn't yet taken off her bra, which is usually her first post-mission activity. It takes him a minute to follow Coulson's gaze to the cards Nat's left on the table, because he honestly hasn't given the stack a second glance.

Coulson's looking at them with something like wonder on his face. It makes his eyes widen and his mouth fall open. Clint stares at him. Something heavy starts to beat inside his chest.

"Natasha..." Coulson whispers, and it's like the man is so overcome he can't even _speak_. "Where did you... _how_ did you... ?"

Natasha smiles, a real honest-to-god smile. Clint's only seen that a half-dozen times. "Seventy-five bucks," she says, "and I got all five. Happy birthday, sir."

Coulson stumbles forward and reaches for the cards. Clint can't move, can't close his mouth, can't stop the feeling that's spreading through his chest. Coulson touches the cards reverently, like he's in the presence of something too precious for words. Clint finally has a name for the feeling he's been warring with for several months.

_Oh, shit._

It's too late, though. It's probably been too late for _years_. Clint realizes with blinding insight that he's hard in his pants, that he wants to drop to his knees and suck Coulson off through his slacks, that he wants to do one hundred and fifty thousand things, whatever it'll take, to put that look back on Coulson's face whenever he looks at Clint.

It's never going to happen, though. Clint swallows his desire and turns away, giving Coulson his back and shoving clothes roughly into his bag. It's fine, he tells himself. It's nothing. He can get over this.

He doesn't.

His crush on Coulson grows and grows. He starts thinking of the man in the shower, starts waking up from dreams about sucking Coulson's cock. He makes up richly textured fantasies in which Coulson's sitting at his desk and Clint wanders in and starts seducing him. 

Even in his imagination, he can't really picture Coulson reciprocating. 

He has hundreds of scenarios. In lots of them, Coulson smiles gently at him and tells him to fuck off. Clint makes up reasons why Coulson would let him do it at least once – maybe he's been dosed with some kind of new unstable chemical, or he's thinking about someone else and really horny and Clint's right there offering to suck his cock. 

Sometimes, he wonders what would happen if he got Coulson drunk – like, falling down drunk – and then offered to blow him. It makes him feel like a sack of shit to imagine, but it still gets him off. He can picture the feeling of Coulson's strong hands in his hair, pulling him down. It's hot beyond words.

The problem is that now Clint can't say anything around the man. He's tongue-tied and stumbling, fighting with himself because he's always just said what he thought to Coulson, and now he has to watch his mouth every goddamn minute of the goddamn day. He'd fallen into the habit of wandering by Coulson's office and hanging out on his couch; Coulson has the world's softest couch, and Clint's bed at S.H.I.E.L.D. is made of rocks. That had been back when he'd been wondering what that feeling he got when Coulson didn't kick him out was, though. Now that he knows, he can't just wander in any more.

He becomes a ghost on the comms. Natasha can't fucking _not_ notice. Coulson can't either, but he doesn't say anything. His actions toward Clint never change, and once again Clint's left feeling like the world's biggest idiot. Why does he have to lust for a man who will never, in a million years, feel the same?

Nat finally calls him on it one afternoon, when they're sitting in her living room watching classic Doctor Who. 

"So did you finally figure out that you want him?" she asks. "Or have you realized that you've been in love with him for years?"

Clint opens his mouth to admit to the first, because there's no point keeping anything from Natasha, when the second point makes him pause. He's not in _love_ with Coulson, he wants to say, he just wants to suck his cock. And maybe get a hand-job in return. You know, something to say "good job, I appreciate it, but it's never going to happen again."

He can't, though, because now he has full-colour mental images of all the _other_ stuff he wants to do with Coulson. Sit on his couch and watch TV after a bad day. Eat dinner in the kitchen and tell stories about the circus. Find out how Coulson went from a scrawny twenty-one year old kid to the biggest badass at S.H.I.E.L.D. Ask if the rumours about the Rangers are true. 

Clint groans and buries his face in his hands. Natasha takes pity on him and pats him on the shoulder. She's right, Clint realizes. She's absolutely right. He _is_ in love with Coulson.

Fuck.

Surprisingly, that realization actually helps him settle down. He doesn't just want to suck Coulson's cock, though that would still be awesome. He wants to _date_ him, and make him breakfast, and basically spend the rest of his life with the guy. The sex thing was already pretty unlikely, but this – this is obviously _never_ going to happen.

And that's... okay. That's okay. It's like the last bit of traitorous hope has gone out of the scenario. Clint calms down over the comms. He goes back to smiling in Coulson's presence and showing up uninvited to hang out on his couch. Clint's not tongue-tied any more – he knows nothing he can say is going to convince the man to give Clint a chance, so he doesn't need to worry. There's no magic combination of words that's going to make Coulson fall in love with him, so Clint doesn't have to stumble any more about what he's going to say.

His fantasies change, though. He no longer lets himself imagine Coulson fucking him, because it's not going to happen. He can't get over the idea of twenty-one year old Phil, though. He remembers their encounter over and over and over again.

"Hey," young Coulson says, his brown hair mousy and thin, but still covering his entire head, his smile hesitant and young and nothing like adult Coulson's. "My name's Phil. Can I buy you a drink?"

Instead of laughing and calling him ugly, fantasy Clint smiles charmingly. "Sure thing, gorgeous," he says, in his best sultry voice. "But how will I ever repay you?"

Clint has hundreds of scenarios about what could happen next. Sometimes he blows Phil right then and there on the sticky bar floor. Sometimes he takes him to the bathroom and sucks him off against a stall. Occasionally, Phil will offer to take him home and Clint will go with him. They'll have sex in Phil's car, or walk to Phil's parents house and have to be quiet because his folks are home. Sometimes, Phil comes back to the circus with him the next morning, and he takes one look at Trickshot and figures out what's been going on because he's so fucking smart. Clint calls the police instead of charging in on his own, and Clint's never beaten and Phil never leaves and it's like his entire life is different, just like that.

He absolutely does not cry when he thinks about it. That's a filthy lie. 

Things change a little in their real lives, though. Clint acknowledges just how much attention he's paid to Coulson over the years. He knows how Coulson likes his coffee and what it means when he gets that little pinch around his eyes. He starts bringing Coulson lunch at his desk when he sees the man hasn't eaten, and sometimes a coffee at ten o'clock if he's been in meetings with Fury all morning. Coulson doesn't acknowledge that anything is different between them, but he doesn't complain about the food or the coffee. He still lets Clint hang out on his couch without saying anything, and he remains their extremely competent handler in the field.

Clint would be perfectly content if this went on forever. He has his fantasy's of Phil at night and a real live Coulson during the day. He feels happy for the first time in a long time, for the first time ever, maybe. He has a job he enjoys and Natasha, who is basically the best fucking friend anyone could ever have. 

It's good. Life is good.

The world around them is changing, though, even if Clint doesn't want it to. There are more and more weird things coming out of the woodwork, monsters and scientists convinced they can play god. Tony Stark goes missing in Afghanistan and then reappears at the same time a new armoured superhero starts flying around the world. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out.

Coulson's sent to monitor the situation. He's been redirected to other ops without them before, but Clint never likes it. He feels itchy when Coulson's out on his own, even though he knows better than anyone that the man can take care of himself. He's just looking into Stark, after all. It's not like he's going to be in danger.

He gives a copy of his apartment key to Natasha, which is par for course. Coulson doesn't have a cat or anything, but apparently he's got plants in his apartment that need occasional watering. Natasha goes by when he's out of town and takes out the garbage if Coulson didn't have time before he left. 

Clint knows where Coulson lives, but he's never been inside. He wonders too much about what the place is like, what kind of stuff Coulson keeps around when he wants to relax. He's betting on a couch that's even more comfortable than the one in his office, an entire closet dedicated to suits, and maybe – if Clint's lucky – a drawer filled with old, soft t-shirts and sweats.

He doesn't ask Natasha, though. She's awesome and everything, but _Clint_ wouldn't be able to resist teasing someone if they asked him that. He can't expect Natasha to have better self-control.

Phil eventually comes back from the Iron Man thing and he's moving just stiffly enough that Clint's upset about it. He doesn't say anything and Natasha gives him back his keys and life goes on. They have more missions, meet more monsters, and some guy named Bruce Banner has some serious problems in life. Clint and Coulson are sent to Harlem to do damage control. Coulson is his usual badass self. Clint falls even more in love with him.

Like that's hard, at this point.

It's all clean-up, but the military is involved and some guy named General Ross is sputtering insults at Coulson. Clint doesn't like him. Apparently, this idiot's solution to the Banner problem was to create _another_ giant monster so the two of them could duke it out, Japanese-sci-fi-movie-style.

Banner escapes, but they've got the other guy. Coulson stays calm in the face of Ross's wrath, even when Clint's twitching to put an arrow through his eyesocket and end all this posturing. 

Finally, it's done. Ross leaves, and Coulson focuses on clean-up. Clint starts looking forward to the drive home. If he plays his cards right, he can tempt Coulson with coffee and score a ride back to base in his car. That's Clint's favourite way to end an op.

Coulson gets a call from Fury, though, before they finish packing up. Clint's standing next to him when he answers, and he gets to watch the way Coulson's face goes first white, and then red. His shoulders straighten and his voice, when he speaks, is a little strained. It's nothing anyone else would notice, but Clint's spent years learning every nuance of Coulson's expression.

"Sir. Yes, sir. Right away, sir," Coulson says. He doesn't actually call Fury 'sir' that often. Something fucking serious is going down.

Clint's got his gear and is ready for deployment to the most remote area of the world before Coulson's finished hanging up the phone. He stares at the dark screen for a solid minute, and then he looks up and seems to realize that Clint is staring at him.

"That, uh... that was the Director."

Clint's never heard Coulson say "uh" before in his life. He tenses, ready to hear that Los Angeles has been destroyed or Natasha's been taken out.

"They've found... well, S.H.I.E.L.D. – _Stark_ , actually – has found Captain America."

Clint stares at Coulson until the words make sense. He blinks and notices that Coulson's flushed, but not angry. There's no line between his eyes, no ready tension in his hands. Instead, he looks _giddy_ – if they weren't surrounded by S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, Clint think Coulson would be bouncing on his toes.

"That's... that's great."

"Isn't it?" Coulson gushes, before he checks himself. "I mean, I was aware that SI was looking – Howard Stark set up a separate fund to continue the expedition, even after his death. But I never imagined – well, not for _real_ – that they'd find him."

Clint feels his heart sink. Of course, this is what Coulson fantasizes about. Finding Captain America. 

He forces himself to smile. "Sounds exciting. Are you leaving right away?"

Coulson nods jerkily. "I..." he pats his pockets, finds his spare set of keys. "Here. Give these to Natasha, please. Ask her to look after the hibiscus. I'm leaving from here, not sure how long I'll be gone. They're extending the retrieval now, he's buried pretty far down in the ice. I'm not sure how long it will take."

Clint nods and takes the keys. His hands tingle when he holds them. "Sure, sir. No problem."

Coulson gives him a blinding grin and then leaves. Clint can hear him relaying instructions to the rest of the team, putting Clint and Sitwell in charge. Clint closes his eyes against the feeling in his chest – a mix of disappointment and hopeless longing, a combination he should be familiar with, after all this time – and focuses on doing his job. He gets the site secure and the monster transported back to Headquarters. Sitwell manages the science team while Clint focuses on clean-up. He's back on base within ten hours, though the reconstruction will obviously take a lot longer.

He looks for Natasha, but apparently while they were away Fury sent her on a solo mission to monitor Stark. Something's up with the man, he's being even more erratic than usual, and Fury wants to know what's going on. She's going to observe him for a time and then infiltrate his organization. Her projected mission end date is unknown.

Clint holds Coulson's keys in his hand and tries to decide what to do. The best thing – the most responsible thing – would be to hand them over to Sitwell. Clint knows that Jasper's one of Coulson's closest friends, and he probably wouldn't mind if he stopped by his apartment. Clint shouldn't even be considering keeping the keys himself. He doesn't know what a hibiscus _is_.

He gets on his bike and drives to Coulson's apartment before he can think too much about it. He's just going to empty the garbage, he tells himself. Get the dirty stuff out of the way so Sitwell doesn't have to. He's helping a friend out, not snooping like some kind of dirty stalker through Coulson's stuff.

Clint lies to himself every step of the way, until he unlocks Coulson's apartment door and walks inside. Once there, he can't stop the flood of instant connection, the way the apartment seems to say _home_.

It's small, or rather, it's not big. Medium-sized, maybe. A little more cozy than Natasha's apartment, but then Natasha likes her space. There are nice windows covered by soft blue curtains, one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a living room that looks like it's earned the name. The TV is big and flat-screened, there's a PVR player, a Blue-ray, and an entire wall filled with old movies and classic sci fi. The kitchen is plain and clean in that way that says it's never been used for its express purpose since Coulson moved in. The bedroom is done in muted tones of quiet purple and gray.

Clint loves it. Clint loves all of it.

He stops lying to himself and drops onto the couch. It's even more comfortable than the one in Coulson's office, and Clint groans and falls asleep before he can tell himself not to. In the morning, he takes out the garbage and stares at the plants living next to the window. He googles how not to kill a hibiscus, and spends the afternoon stalking flower shops in case he messes up and has to replace the plant.

He's got the standard two days off after an op and he spends the entire time in Coulson's apartment. Aside from that first, quick glance, Clint never goes into Coulson's bedroom. The closet dedicated to suits remains a mystery. He absolutely refuses to look for a drawer filled with old t-shirts and sweatpants. He _does_ buy a few sets of clothes and some sheets from the nearest Goodwill and makes himself comfortable on Coulson's couch. He goes through the fridge and throws out the mustard and ketchup, which Clint didn't even know could go bad. There's nothing else in the fridge, a few cans in the cupboards, and nothing but take-out containers in the trash. It doesn't take a expert to figure out that Coulson absolutely never cooks.

Clint tells himself he'll have plenty of warning before Coulson comes home. He wipes the dust off a couple of plates and buys a few pots and pans from a second-hand store. He goes grocery shopping and fills the fridge, then gives in and gets a spice rack. He may not have his own place, but Natasha loves it when he cooks for her. He doesn't get the chance to experiment often.

Once his leave is over and Clint's back at S.H.I.E.L.D., he doesn't move out of the apartment. The commute is actually pretty quick on the subway. With Coulson and Natasha both on long-term missions, Fury is keeping Clint close at hand. There are the usual domestic incidents, and Clint's shipped to Jersey a few times and once to Chicago, but he's never gone long. The hibiscus is still alive, despite Clint's black thumb, and he's been steadily working his way through Coulson's impressive collection of sci fi.

He's never actually seen Babylon Five. It's pretty good. He think Nat and Ivanova would get along too well for the world to withstand. 

Despite what Natasha likes to imply, Clint _does_ check his phone occasionally. It's completely not his fault that things in Malibu go from bad to worse approximately overnight, and Fury freaks out and calls in the cavalry. Clint's nestled into Coulson's couch, watching Susan yell at diplomats and wondering what _really_ happened to President Clark, when a key turns in the lock and Coulson walks in.

Clint sits up and begins quietly freaking out.

Coulson steps into the apartment and stops. He blinks at Clint, looks around, and looks back at Clint. Clint's mouth falls open. He shuts it. He can't think of a single thing to say.

Coulson glances around again. Clint watches the the way his gaze settles on the pots drying in the plastic rack Clint's bought, the pile of clothes and the sheet he's got stacked next to the couch, and the pillow at Clint's back. The door to the bedroom is still closed, and Clint's hung the new towels he got – he couldn't use Coulson's – up in the bathroom. The plants aren't dead and Clint didn't even touch the PVR. 

Time seems to unfreeze. "Hello," Coulson says. He finally steps in and lets the door swing shut behind him.

The word is enough to snap Clint out of his fugue. He leaps off the couch, tangles his feet in the blanket he has wrapped around his legs, and barely catches himself on the coffee table. He fumbles for the remote control and pauses the DVD on Susan's screaming face.

"Sorry, sir. Give me a minute and I'll get out of your hair." Clint avoids Coulson's eyes and starts grabbing at his stuff. "I didn't... Nat's in Malibu and I wasn't sure... I should have just given the keys to Sitwell, I'm sorry. I'll just... give me a minute..."

Coulson hasn't moved, but his lips quirk in a smile. "It's okay. Did you," he glances at the kitchen again, "cook?"

Clint stares at him, a bundle of clothes in his arms. "Um, yes?" He swallows, drops the clothes back onto the couch, and stumbles for the kitchen. "Do you want something? You just got in, you must be hungry. It's the least I can – I'm sorry – do you want an omelet? I make a mean omelet. And there's, um, leftovers. Lasagna? I can heat up some lasagna?"

"You made lasagna?"

Clint finds his feet and opens the fridge. It's filled with food, half of it new and the other half covered in plastic wrap. The lasagna is on the bottom shelf, and Clint pulls it out. 

Coulson sounds amused. "I didn't think I had a lasagna pan."

"You didn't," Clint says, blushing. "I mean, I did some shopping. Just at Goodwill, nothing that you can't throw out later. That is – well, I can't take it all back to S.H.I.E.L.D. or anything, and Nat's already got stuff. Are you home to stay? I mean, are you heading out again? Do you want anything else? I can make you something else."

Coulson shakes his head, drops his bag, and steps into the kitchen. "Lasagna sounds perfect, actually – I'm starving. Airline food is disgusting and Fury got me a military drop off. I only stopped home to change my bag and grab a few more clothes. I'm going to join Natasha in Malibu; apparently, Stark's self-destructing."

Clint nods while he fusses over the lasagna. "Nat sent a text from her Rushman ID, complaining about her new boss. I figured things were getting tense, but I didn't think Fury would pull you back. How – uh – how did the op go? With Captain America?"

Coulson smiles, a wide, honest grin that distracts Clint for a couple of seconds.

"Good. Really good. We got the Captain out and into stasis. R&D says the cellular preservation is incredible. They think it's due to the formula. He's expected to wake up any time."

Clint has to catch himself on the counter. "He ... he's _alive_?"

Coulson nods, a little more soberly now. "Yes. Incredible, isn't it? R&D thinks its because he was flash frozen by the ice."

"But he can't have been... he wasn't... conscious?"

"No, they don't think so. It was more like a deep sleep, just above the point of brain death. He's expected to make a full recovery, but of course we won't know that until he wakes up."

"And Fury pulled you off of that? For _Stark_?"

Coulson shrugs and sits down at the small kitchen table. "Stark's important, and no one knows when or if Rogers will wake up. I'm needed in California."

"Wow." Clint shakes his head. "It's Captain America though, your hero. I would have thought Fury'd be a little more compassionate about giving you the time off."

Coulson stands to gather utensils and doesn't meet Clint's eyes. "Yes, well, the situation on the ground in Malibu has changed. How has life been in New York?"

"Oh, you know, same old, same old. I went to Jersey to stop a breakout of giant killer robotic wasps. The world is getting weirder, sir."

"I know," Coulson says, and he smiles. The microwave dings and Clint pulls out the lasagna. Coulson glances around the apartment again. "I would have thought you'd be at Natasha's."

Clint blushes again, and tries to hide it with a laugh. "Nat? Are you kidding? She'd kill me. That woman loves me, but I'm not allowed in her apartment without adult supervision." He stops and turns around, stricken. "I mean, I know I'm not allowed here, either. I just – shit, sir. I'm sorry."

Coulson actually looks surprised. "Of course you're allowed," he says. "I don't mind that you stayed. I just... I thought you and Natasha lived together."

"No," Clint frowns. "I live at S.H.I.E.L.D."

"You still have a bunk at S.H.I.E.L.D.?" 

Clint shrugs and looks away, taking a knife from the drawer to cut the lasagna. "Yeah. Keeps me close to the action, you know?"

"But you and Natasha have been together for years. That's an... odd way to run a relationship." He blushes. "Not that it's any of my business. I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry."

"Nat and I aren't together."

Coulson looks up from where he'd been fiddling with his fork. "What?"

Clint stares at him. Did Coulson really think...? "Nat and I. We aren't together. We haven't been together for years."

"But you," Coulson looks honestly confused. "You sleep together all the time on ops."

Clint shrugs and sits down. He hands Coulson a plate of lasagna. "Yeah, on ops, or neither of us would rest. We take turns watching each other's back. Not that we don't trust you," he hurries to say, "when you're not there, we don't sleep at all. It's just... habit."

Coulson stares at him. "I... did not know that."

Clint blushes and takes a bite of his lasagna. He's not that hungry, but it beats looking at Coulson's face and confessing everything. "I should probably get that in writing. 'Phil Coulson does not actually know everything'. I could raffle it off and make millions."

Coulson rolls his eyes, but his ears are red. He takes a bite of his lasagna and stops. "Wow," he says, around the food. He swallows. "This is... really good."

Clint shrugs and takes another bite. "Why do you think Nat puts up with me cooking at her place? I don't get a lot of chances to practice."

"You're welcome over any time, you know," Coulson says. Startled, Clint looks up. He meets Coulson's eyes. The man looks sincere.

"I always gave Natasha my keys because I thought, well, I didn't want to assume..." Coulson clears his throat and looks back at his plate. "You should know, though. Any time."

Clint swallows. "Thanks," he says, softly. Then he smiles. "Does that mean I can finish Babylon Five?"

Coulson looks at him. "You've never seen it before?"

Clint shakes his head. "I mostly watch Doctor Who at Natasha's."

"Doctor Who is Doctor Who," Coulson agrees. "But Babylon Five is a good show, if you like sci fi. What season are you on?"

"Two, just started episode one. I can't believe Sinclair is gone."

"You'll see him again, his storyline is far from over. And Sheridan is good – give him time. Do you want to..." Coulson makes a face Clint's never seen before, something hesitant and shy. "Do you want to finish the episode? I have enough time."

Clint has to force himself to swallow and beat down his pulse before he says yes, and they move to the living room. He pushes his things off the couch, arranges a spot for them both, and they sit to watch TV. It's... nice. It's too nice, actually. Clint finds himself nervous in Coulson's company, fulfilling a dream he's had for far too long.

Too soon, Coulson has to leave. Clint moves to gather his things, but Coulson stops him. "You can stay, if you like," he says. He's blushing again, just a little. "I mean, watch another episode or whatever. I'll be gone for a few days, at least."

Clint pauses in the middle of picking up his clothes. "Are you sure?"

"Of course," Coulson says. "I told you, Clint. Any time."

Clint likes the way his name sounds in Coulson's mouth far too much. On a mission, Coulson calls him "Agent" or "Barton", and in private, they rarely use names at all. 

"Um, sure. I mean, if it's okay. I want to learn more about this Sheridan guy."

"Tell me what you think when I get home," Coulson says, and he's smiling. Clint nods and Coulson quickly packs his bags. He's out the door before another ten minutes has passed.

Clint cleans up slowly, washing their dishes and putting the rest of the lasagna away. There's enough left for one more meal, if it's just going to be him.

He goes back to the couch and re-watches the episode again, knowing that he spent far too long enjoying the feel of Coulson sitting next to him on the couch and not enough concentrating on the show. He mainlines another four episodes after that, trying desperately not to think. He knows what will happen if he allows himself to think about this, this permission that Coulson has just given him, and he's been _really good_ so far about not jerking off on Coulson's couch. He can't break that streak now. 

The mission in Malibu goes well. Apparently, Stark was dying, but he's not anymore. There's a giant battle at the Expo that Clint catches on TV. It's all over before S.H.I.E.L.D. can mobilize, but Nat is there. She says Coulson isn't – there's some kind of situation going on in New Mexico. Coulson's on the road when Stark and War Machine take down the Hammertech bots. 

Clint thinks he'll get tapped for clean-up after the Expo, since he's already in town, but he's unexpectedly requested in New Mexico. It seems Fury has some ideas about the satellite that's fallen to earth there and he wants Clint's eyes on the situation.

The mission goes from standard, to bizarre, to plain weird. Clint aims an arrow at a blonde giant in the rain, watches Coulson play the bad cop card, follows a couple Norwegian guys to a bar, and stumbles back to base at five a.m. He's still asleep when an alien robot appears in the desert, and he's not at all impressed that Coulson goes without him. 

All's well that ends well, though. Coulson's okay and Clint arrives in time to help with clean-up. The blonde giant is apparently some kind of demigod, or an actual god, Clint's not sure. Coulson calls him Donald, though, and they both smile. Clint teases him about the "Son of Coul" thing all the way back to headquarters.

Life gets weirder, after that. Captain America wakes up. Coulson isn't there to supervise the process, which is probably why it all goes to shit. Clint's on a skyscraper in New York, watching as Steve Rogers registers where and when he is, and feels almost bad for the guy. If Coulson didn't have such an obvious crush on him, Clint thinks he might actually like Rogers.

S.H.I.E.L.D. found something else along with the Captain, though. Fury sets up a research department to study the cube, and puts Coulson on it. Clint spends a few days living in Coulson's apartment – he's on season three right now, and he has to admit Sheridan is turning out pretty badass – before he's shipped to the Pegasus facility. He debates bringing the DVDs with him to maybe watch with Coulson while they're there, but he tells himself that's stupid. Coulson will be busy running the facility and Clint shouldn't be thinking of ways to distract him on an op, no matter how good the idea of relaxing together at the end of the day sounds in his head.

They're at the Pegasus facility for a couple of weeks before things start to go to shit. Coulson calls Fury and Clint warns him as best as he can, but it's too late. The cube flares and Loki appears and that's all Clint knows, for a long time. His world becomes blue. His purpose is so clear that it _hurts_ , this absolute truth he understands for the first time. He's always wanted someone to trust, someone to follow, but he's been too caught in making people prove that they're worthy to understand there are actual Gods he can worship, supreme beings who deserve his devotion.

Loki is a God, and perfect. Clint does everything he can to make his mission a success, and more.

Still, he can feel it when his God is injured. He has a flash, they all do, of an impact that stuns Loki, and Clint catches a momentary glimpse of Coulson's face. It's enough to crack Loki's icy control, and Natasha's kick does the rest. He wakes up in a world saturated in red, green, and purple, and struggles to be free of the sucking blue ice.

He wants to ask about Coulson, but he tucks every image he'd ever gotten from Loki away in the back of his mind and focuses on doing his job. Rogers is there, and he needs someone to fly the quinjet. Clint can do that. He can fucking well do that.

So he flies, and they fight, and Clint gets to kill a lot of aliens, even if he doesn't get to kill Loki. The WSC fires a nuke at New York and Stark saves the day. Clint is glad that Coulson was there in Malibu with Natasha to get Stark back on track, glad that the man didn't die after all.

They're in the restaurant eating shawarma after, when Clint hears Thor making a toast.

"To the Son of Coul, and all the others who fell this terrible day. This is a sorrowful victory, my friends. I am most ashamed of my brother's actions."

Clint chokes on his food and looks up. "What?" he asks, coughing. "What did you say about Coulson?"

Thor looks genuinely heartbroken. "He fell in battle against Loki, my friend. I – "

Thor keeps talking, but Clint can't hear him. He can't hear anything. He turns to Natasha, desperately pleading her with his eyes to refute this, to condemn this, to shout at Thor that it isn't true.

She's staring at him, though, grief heavy on her face, and Clint feels himself collapsing, feels his world start to burn.

He stumbles to his feet, gets himself outside, and then vomits in the street. He's crying, when did he start crying? He's talking, too.

"I killed him, I killed him. Oh my god, Nat. Oh my god. I never told him. I never... I killed him."

"Clint. Clint!" She's on the street next to him, holding his face in her hands. "You didn't, you _didn't_. It was Loki, it was only Loki."

Clint's shaking, his hands, his head, his entire body is vibrating with so much loss that it _hurts_. There's a black hole inside his heart, sucking him down from the inside out. "I killed him. I killed him. Oh my god. He's _dead_."

Dimly, he can hear the team freaking out. Stark is asking something about a cellist, Rogers is trying to shut him up. Thor is offering apologies, like this is something he can _fix_ , and Banner isn't saying anything. Clint shakes on the sidewalk until Nat jabs him with something and he passes out, his arm burning from where the dart pricked him. 

He wakes up an unknown amount of time later in the softest bed he's ever known. Natasha is waiting for him. She catches him before he can start freaking out again. He screams at her, demanding to know why she didn't tell him before. She doesn't even have to say anything, just looks pointedly to where his hands are shaking. Clint's hands never shake – it's one of the few things he's proud of, along with his aim. Clint shuts up and sobs, agreeing with her. If he had known, he wouldn't have been able to fight.

He's glad he was able to fight.

He exists in a half-exhausted fugue for the next week. He can't sleep for long because of the nightmares, but he's not really awake, either. Nat does what she can, and Rogers, too. They spar with him a little, both taking it easy on him, because he needs something to do. He can't go back to the helicarrier, and he can't go to Phil's apartment. Nat takes the keys from him and Clint wonders if she's keeping the hibiscus alive. That becomes very important to him. He needs to know the plant is going to survive.

It's another three days before Sitwell shows up. Stark doesn't want to let him in, but he says he has news about Coulson. Clint listens without understanding. He's moving before he can internalize what might be going on.

Coulson isn't dead – or rather, he is, but he's also not – and Clint doesn't understand and he doesn't need to. He gets on the quinjet and Nat pilots them to a secret facility, where apparently Sitwell has noticed that S.H.I.E.L.D. requisitioned a lot of specalized equipment and a cardiologist or two.

Clint is vaguely aware that the rest of the team is following them in, but he only has eyes for Coulson. Coulson, who is laying in a hospital bed looking too pale and too still, but _alive_.

Sweet Jesus, Coulson is alive.

Clint collapses into the hard plastic visitor's chair and refuses to move while Stark yells and Sitwell growls back. Fury shows up and kicks everybody out, except for Clint and Natasha, both of whom make it obvious that they aren't going anywhere. Natasha has his hand in such a death grip, Clint thinks he might lose circulation to his fingers. He's okay with that.

If he could, Clint would give up his bow to buy Coulson's life. He would give both his hands, if he could make that deal.

He can't, though, so he waits. Stark and Banner confer, and Thor talks to someone who talks to someone in Asgard, and there's a lot of magic mumbo jumbo that Clint doesn't even pretend to understand. But in the end, Coulson takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his heart monitor speeds up. Clint doesn't even try to hide his tears.

It takes another two days, but Coulson eventually wakes up. The doctors are all smiling, and Stark is bouncing on his toes. Thor is grinning, Banner looks quietly pleased, and Rogers has this little bashful grin on his face. Natasha is actually showing emotion in public, which is some kind of record, and Clint hasn't moved from Coulson's side.

Coulson opens his eyes and stares that them, his gaze starting with Clint but lingering on each of them. He doesn't say anything, but he smiles, and then passes out again. Jasper lets out a whoop.

It takes time, so much fucking time, but eventually Coulson can stay awake long enough to actually have half-hour conversations with them all. He requests time with each member of the team personally, starting with Jasper and Fury, and then cycling through the Avengers. Clint doesn't realize that he's effectively given himself away until he overhears Stark laughing as he leaves Coulson's room.

"Your boyfriend's pacing in the corridor, Agent. You'd better get to him next, or he'll wear a hole in the floor."

Clint freezes and stares at Stark with a shocked expression. Tony only grins and ushers him inside. Clint stumbles into the plastic chair and can't look Coulson in the face. He fiddles instead with the hem of his shirt.

"Sorry about that. Stark's kind of an asshole."

Coulson doesn't say anything, so Clint risks a glance up. Coulson's staring at him, but he's smiling. It's a sad smile, though, bittersweet. It makes something in Clint's chest clench. 

"It's okay," Coulson says. "I don't think he understands actual human emotion."

Clint coughs out a laugh. "He's been really good to us, though. Letting us stay at his place. I, um, couldn't go back to the apartment. I think Nat's been watching the plants, though."

"That's good," Coulson murmurs. "I was hoping for some more of that lasagna, though."

"Sir, if you get out of here I'll make you all the fucking lasagna that you want."

Coulson huffs out a laugh. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Agent. I'll tie you to couch, otherwise."

Clint's brain goes off-line at that image. Coulson swallows and looks a little panicked. "I didn't mean –" he blurts out. "I just meant that I like your cooking."

Clint has to force himself to swallow and put away the vision of himself, Coulson, and ropes. "Right," he says. His voice is hoarse.

"I really didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, Clint," Coulson hurries on. "Please, forget I said anything. Clint?"

"Jesus Christ, stop saying my _name_ ," Clint groans, struggling to get control of himself. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. His libido, which he had consciously put on standby at Pegasus and hasn't thought of for an instant since, is suddenly flaring with a speed that shocks him. "I'm going to come in my fucking pants, sir."

He did not say that out loud. Oh crap, he did. _Shit_. Clint's eyes fly open, his hard-on evaporating in the face of abject humiliation. "I mean – " he stumbles. _Shit shit shit!_. "I mean..."

Coulson is staring at him, his eyes wide. Clint blushes and stands up so fast he gets dizzy. "I'll just –"

Coulson's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. Clint stills instantly.

"If you move from this room I will personally chase you down and tackle you, and I don't think that will be very beneficial to my recovery."

Clint sits down so fast, he hurts his ass and winces. "No, sir."

Coulson doesn't let go of his wrist. He's staring at him. Clint fidgets and looks at his shoes. His brain his a constant litany of _shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck ..._

"Did you mean that?" Coulson asks. His voice is low and swimming with something hot and proprietary. "Could you really come just from the sound of my voice?"

"Any fucking minute of the day, sir," Clint blurts out, before his brain can catch up with his mouth. He catches himself and snaps his jaw shut, shutting his eyes and looking away. 

"Clint," Coulson says, and he sounds desperate and so fucking sincere. " _Clint_."

Clint moans and takes a deep breath. He opens his eyes and looks at Coulson. Coulson is staring at him with something like hunger in his eyes. 

His face wavers, and suddenly it's not just Coulson – it's _Phil_. It's every fantasy Clint has ever had, twenty-one and thirty-four and forty-two and every kind of Phil Coulson Clint has ever dreamed of is staring at him with heat and desire. 

Clint has to close his eyes and breathe through his mouth again. "Fuck, sir."

"Against every wall and in every position," Phil agrees.

Clint keens, and he's on his knees before the hospital bed before he's even conscious of moving. "Please don't be fucking with me, sir. _Please_. I know I deserve it, I know I do, but please please _please_ do not be fucking with me here."

"No, of course not, Clint. I would never. Not about this."

Clint buries his head in Phil's hospital sheets. They smell like him, and he takes a deep breath through his nose, savouring it. A dream couldn't feel this real, could it? No. Besides, all he's had since Nat kicked him in the head are nightmares.

Phil hesitates for a moment, and then Clint can feel gentle hands carding through his hair. "How long...?" Phil asks.

Clint goes boneless, his scalp tingling. "Forever," he says, and then, when he can fucking _hear_ Phil's smile, he clarifies. "Since Odessa."

Phil's hands stutter in his hair. Clint tenses, but then Phil resumes stroking. "That... that was years ago."

"Mmm," Clint agrees, wordlessly. Phil's hands feel _amazing_.

Phil stops, though, his hands coming around to frame Clint's face. He tugs his chin up, and Clint follows, willing to follow Phil anywhere. Phil's turned on his side in bed, which Clint's pretty sure he's not allowed to do just yet, but he doesn't look like he's in pain. Instead, he looks shocked.

"You've wanted me since _Odessa_?"

Clint presses his head into Phil's hands, loving the feel of them on him. "I've had fantasies of sucking your cock since Odessa, but I was in love with you long before then."

Phil goes stock still, and Clint belatedly realizes that he's saying too much. He tries to pull away, but Phil's hands tighten. Clint stills, but his heart is pounding. "I... uh..."

Phil closes his eyes, his breathing ragged. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Umm..." Clint's brain is going off-line again, panic threatening to draw him under. "It's okay, we don't have to... I can just. Just don't send me away, _please_. I won't ever say anything about it again."

Phil frowns and his eyes fly open. He looks upset. "Never say that," he says sternly. "You aren't going anywhere and if I have any say about it, you never will. Just answer the question."

"I thought..." Clint wishes he could duck his head, but Phil's holding him tight. "I thought you hated me. For a long time. When I realized you didn't, I didn't think you liked me very much. I didn't want to – I wouldn't do anything to risk being kicked off your team, sir."

Phil's eyes close again, just for a moment, and Clint can see something heavy weighing on his shoulders. "I never hated you."

"I know that," Clint hurries to say. "I mean, I know that now. I wouldn't have blamed you, though, if you did. _I_ would have hated me, if I had... I mean, I _did_ hate myself, for what I said to you all those years ago, and..."

Phil is staring at him. He looks shocked. "You remember that?" 

Clint stares at him. "Of _course_ I remember that. Did you think I'd forgotten?"

Phil blushes. His hands drop from Clint's face, but they rest on the bed, and Clint tangles their fingers together. "I didn't think you recognized me."

Clint feels his jaw fall open. "Didn't recognize you? Why do you think I freaked out, that first time we met at S.H.I.E.L.D.? I was losing my shit in that chair."

Phil's ears go pink. "I didn't.... I don't remember much, about that lesson. I was so embarrassed."

"Fuck, sir. I'm so sorry. I was a jackass, and –"

Phil squeezes his hands. "No," he says. "I was embarrassed because all I could think of was that I had to finish the lesson and get back to my apartment so I could bury all the _Hawkeye_ posters I had framed in my bedroom. I was terrified that you'd suddenly show up for some random reason and see them."

Clint stares at him. "You... you have my old circus posters?"

Phil nods. "Seven of them."

"But, I... I was such a _jerk_."

Phil actually smiles. "Not really," he says. "I never actually thought I had a chance with you. I just figured," he shrugged, "why the hell not try?"

Clint can't believe it. He drops his head onto the bed. "So, you mean that I while I walking around S.H.I.E.L.D., absolutely convinced that you had no idea who I was, and didn't care if I lived or dropped off the face of the earth..."

"I was hopelessly in love with you. For years. Ridiculously so, actually. That day in the cafeteria, I just froze. I couldn't even request you on ops, I was too embarrassed. I knew that the moment I had to order you into danger, I would throw up."

"That first mission with Esponita..."

"I don't know how I made it through," Phil confesses. "I managed to lock everything away and get through it. After that, I figured that if I could do it once, I could do it again. I never threw out your posters, though. They're in the back of my closet. When I walked in to find you in my apartment, I nearly had a heart attack."

Clint lets out a laugh that's practically a sob. "Oh, god, me too. I told myself I was just going to water the plants, but then I couldn't leave. I just wanted to pretend _so badly_ that I'd be welcome there that I slept on your couch for two weeks."

"It's a very comfortable couch," Phil says, with a smile in his voice. 

"Even better than the couch in your office," Clint agrees. "I love that couch."

"I bought it for you," Phil admits. Clint has to look up then. Phil's face is almost painfully fond. "Jasper said you had a habit of testing out the various sleeping spots around S.H.I.E.L.D., and I thought, if I got a comfortable couch, maybe I could tempt you into my office in between ops."

"It worked."

"Too well," Phil agreed. "The first few times, I couldn't even get work done. I just wrote the alphabet over and over again on random sheets of paper while you lay there and looked gorgeous."

Clint blushes. "I thought if I kept quiet, you might not kick me out."

"Never that."

"Shit," Clint breathes. "Are you serious? Do you want to try – I mean, with _me_?"

"Of course with you, Clint. No one else but you."

Clint has to close his eyes and take a deep breath. "Stark was saying something about a cellist?"

Phil's quiet, and when Clint peeks, he looks embarrassed. "Pepper was getting on my case about working too much. I said the first thing I thought of that involved a bow. There had been that mission to the Philharmonic, and you were undercover, and..." He blushes.

Clint stares at him. "How are you even _real_?"

Phil meets his eyes. He raises a hand to stroke it along the side of Clint's jaw. "I've been asking myself that about you for years."

Clint closes his eyes, then turns his face into Phil's hand and kisses his palm. Phil shudders. His other hand comes up to stroke Clint's face, and it's all Clint can do not to climb into bed with him right then and there.

Natasha saves him with her usual impeccable timing. She knocks quietly on the door and they pull away from each other, Phil's hand coming down to tangle with Clint's again before she walks in.

"The doctors say its time for you to rest, sir," Natasha says. She's smiling at them both. "You've already had too much excitement for one day."

It's obvious that Phil wants to argue, but Clint's not about to do anything to damage his recovery. Thor might have finagled some fancy magic, but Phil still gets worn out surprisingly quickly. 

"She's right, sir. You should sleep."

Phil's hand tightens on his, and Clint can't help but smile. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You better not be," Phil grumbles, but he rearranges himself in bed. Clint shuts off the light and Phil sighs, relaxing. Clint waits beside him until Phil drifts back to sleep, and for a long time after.

Eventually, Phil's released. Stark's not thrilled that the team wants to scatter for a while, but he's got Pepper waiting for him in Malibu, and Fury assures them he'll call the team together when they're needed. Loki is shipped back to Asgard and Clint only resists not killing him because he knows Phil is waiting for him back home. If Clint starts an interdimensional incident, he'll be late for dinner.

Rogers borrows his bike and takes off for places unknown. Banner goes with Stark to "Candyland", and Natasha drives Clint to Phil's apartment. Phil's waiting on the couch when Clint gets in, and he boots up an episode of Babylon Five as Clint steps in the door. They're in the middle of season three, now, and it's starting to get intense.

"Everything go okay?" Phil asks as the episode starts. 

"Well enough," Clint says with a shrug. He feels the last of the tension leave him, and snuggles into Phil's chest. "Stark isn't happy, but I think it'll be okay. Everyone's got a fancy communicator, and Banner was happy to hear you'll be the liasion to S.H.I.E.L.D. I think he's still nervous about Ross."

"I don't blame him," Phil says. His arms come up to wrap around Clint and hold him close. They sit that way for a moment. Clint knows it's just because their relationship is new, that eventually Phil will get tired of him hogging all his space, but he's determined to enjoy it while he can.

Phil doesn't say anything, but he doesn't let go, either. Eventually, the episode ends and the DVD prompts them. "Another?" Phil asks.

"Sure," Clint says. He hits the play button and settles back down, his head resting comfortably on Phil's thigh. 

They still have a lot to talk about, but Clint's learned there really is a closet dedicated to suits, and sure enough, in the back, are a half-dozen framed posters Clint's almost forgotten exist. He has his own drawer now, next to Phil's t-shirts and sweatpants, and he doesn't sleep on the couch anymore. 

It's better than anything Clint's ever imagined. He sighs, and snuggles closer. Phil kisses the top of his head. "What?"

"Nothing," Clint says. "I'm happy."

"Me, too," Phil says. He kisses his head again. "Relax. I'm not going anywhere."

"I know," Clint says. He thinks maybe he really does.


End file.
